Saving Private Ryan
by LittleBritainFanatic
Summary: This is the controlled assessment I did for English - and I got full marks! I hope you like it.


Use a still image from a film as the starting point for a piece of writing

Not one of my men understands the enormous level of responsibility that is handed to you when you become a captain. Forced to hide my true feelings, my job gives a false impression of my intentions, my beliefs and my personality. In fact, it was because of this complete responsibility that I am now in hospital; hiding an illness for the sake of my mission nearly took my life. Which is something that none of then will ever realise. It was a choice between my orders, and my life... and the orders almost won...

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><p>Initially, all eight of us were ecstatic to have avoided the torrential rain - we had laughed cruelly from the safety of our tent at those outside, all of whom sure to contract pneumonia if subjected to the storm for much longer - but now we were faced with the aftershock. Mud. Being too young to have witnessed the mud of World War One, I could only imagine what it must have been lie - but this mud seemed a close contender.<p>

Rallying my men, choosing to ignore the protests I was bombarded with ("That's not mud - it's blooming quicksand, Sir!" Private Reiben cried indignantly; "What sort of diseases could be in that sh-" Private Mellish had began, before I silenced his moans with a stern gaze into his deep brown eyes.), I strode forwards, and suddenly dropped to my knees as stabbing pains shot through my abdomen. What was happening to me? Hauling myself to my unsteady feet, the mud drenched field began to contort as my vision blurred disturbingly.

"Sir?" The voice, full of child-like apprehension, echoed around my pounding brain; each repetition drove another sharp pain through my head, down my spine, and into my burning stomach, where it promptly exploded. Wanting to scream, I forced myself to turn to my men, giving them a reassuring smile, and bade them follow my lead.

The next few minutes stretched into years: my rapid, irregular heartbeat pounded in my years, each beat telling me I was still alive - although I wasn't sure if that was a good thing; waves of nausea flowed through me, fighting my gag reflex to hold off the inevitable vomiting fit; my calf muscles stung with a build up of lactic acid (illogical considering that my hyperventilation was giving my weak body too much oxygen, not too little) whilst my knees fought the desire to buckle; and I barely had the strength to pull my boots back to the surface whenever they were sucked into the pools of thick, liquid mud. I wanted to die.

Finally, the violent stomach cramps overwhelmed me with nausea and - I felt bile rise up my throat, mouth filling with saliva - vomit sprayed from my mouth like a repulsive fountain. Terrified voices circled me, but before anyone could reach my side, my legs crumpled from beneath my fatigue ridden frame, and I tumbled into the mud. Smack! Although my head drove into a sharp, jagged tree root, I felt nothing except searing, burning agony in my lower right abdomen; it wasn't until blood trickled into my green eyes that it even occurred to me that I was wounded, and I didn't care either.

"Captain Miller!" Irwin Wade, my friend and field medic, was beside me, rolling my weak body over and staring into my eyes. An inexperienced soldier, Wade struggled to cope with suffering in others; his hands quivered as he ran them over my aching limbs, seemingly checking for fractures. Despite finding no injuries (apart from the bloody gash above my eyebrows which, by now, had caused blood to trickle into my open mouth) the way his sky blue eyes hovered over my torso told me, even in such as state, that the medical officer knew the reason for my agony. "Does your stomach hurt, Sir?" He whispered tactfully, understanding my reluctance to let the squad know I was in pain (but pain was an understatement. I was in agony!).

Shaking my head firmly, silently reassuring him that I wasn't ill at all, Wade raised his eyebrows in response, seeing through my charade. Making a grab at my shirt, I screamed in protest - but found that my arms would no longer obey my brain's commands - but Wade ignored me, his nimble fingers hastily unbuttoning my mud soaked shirt. Exposing my torso for the whole group to witness, Wade's eye's widened, and I watched his Adam's Apple jolt as he gulped fearfully. He seemed set to faint.

Carefully, I raised my head and stared down my chest to my lower abdomen, barely an inch above my belt, seeing for myself what was petrifying Wade. Scarlet skin strained to cover a large swelling beneath it, which throbbed in time to my thready pulse. I had appendicitis. Zoning out, I only half heard Wade's frantic mumbles telling me it was about to rupture, and that if we didn't remove the appendix, blood poisoning and death would follow. Death! Unable to believe it, I, suddenly finding strength, tightly gripped Wade's hands, allowing a few ears to slide down my bloodstained cheeks, terrified beyond words. Grinning weakly, Wade sighed, but came to his decision, albeit reluctantly.

Only realising what he was doing until Wade drew a scalpel from his bag, I whimpered, reluctant to do this. Hurriedly cleaning my skin, Wade suddenly swore violently, announcing to the group that he had no morphine left. I was about to protest, when a cramp in my stomach caused a shooting pain to jolt through my body, and I realised I couldn't take this any more.

"Do it." I ordered, screwing my eyes up to prevent the flood of tears about to flow from them.

Limbs held down with a hand clamped over my blue tinged lips, Wade counted down from three - and pressed the knife to my abdomen, piecing the skin. Overwhelming, excruciating, uncontrollable pain exploded through my body, and I screamed into my gag, attempting to kick my pinned down legs. Arching my back, I choked back sobs as Wade sliced further into my flesh, blood spurting from the wound.

Reopening my eyes, watching Wade - with blood up to his elbows - bite his lip until he drew blood, I became aware of black shapes clouding my vision. Now almost blind, head spinning, I attempted to fight the darkness; against my will, my eyelids fluttered shut, and I sank into the abyss, almost certain that death was awaiting me...

Amazing, numbing warmth flowed through my body when I eventually awoke, so groggy I could barely move. Which was when it occurred to me - I wasn't dead. Fighting the fatigue, I slowly opened my eyes, and found Wade sat at the foot of my bed, gazing at me. Somehow, his eyelids were swollen the way mine do when I get hay fever, and I wondered why. At least, until he spoke, for his hoarse, wavering voice told me Wade had been crying.

As Wade seemed incapable of speech, I took to staring at my surroundings, totally amazed: beside me, there sat an intravenous drip bag, which lead to a needle piercing my inner elbow; dozens of beds stretched away from me in both directions, each holding men in various states of health; and countless nurses trundled along the ward, carrying bed pans, bandages... and the occasional body bag, their rubber soled shoes squeaking in the linoleum. Regaining the feeling in my limbs, I became aware of how heat radiated from the surface of my skin, bare from the waist up, explaining the damp flannel resting on my stitch covered forehead.

Remembering that Wade was still there, I nudged him with my foot, smiling weakly - I wanted to sob, but I have to be BRAVE, don't I? - at the young soldier. But he was the brave one; Wade pushed himself to do the operation (I wish I hadn't written that; 'operation' makes everything seem much more serious) despite not wanting to risk my life. But he did it; he saved my life, and I knew then that I was indebted to Irwin Wade for the rest of my existence.

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><p>The comment stating the ignorance of my men may have been an exaggeration, for Wade, as a medic, also knows how some professions make you responsible for other's lives. Although I may still be in hospital, the pain eases by the day; the morphine certainly helps manage it.<p>

I hate war. If it wasn't for this war, I never would have had my appendix removed without anaesthetic (an unpleasant experience to say the least!) and develop an infection afterwards, hence my fever. However, war gave Wade an opportunity to save a life. So, maybe, war is a good thing, for it gives people a chance to battle the evil around them, and really make a difference to the devastation surrounding them...at least until they get killed...


End file.
